Technology: Blessing or Curse? You decide.

During my weekly writing jaunt to the suburban Starbucks “where the cool kids hang out”  I overheard a group of, ahem, middle aged ladies discussing their views on how technology has transformed our world for the worse. 

“Every time I want him to do something, take out the trash, go to the store, mow the lawn, whatever, he’s on the damn computer,” Mom A complained.  (I think she was talking about her husband.)

Mom B chimed in. “Kids don’t even know how to talk to each other anymore. They just IM. Nobody has manners or respect. And don’t get me started about attention span.”

“Yeah. You’re right. If I want someone’s attention, I have to text or write on their Wall. I can scream all I want, but when I text, they pay attention,” bellowed Mom C.  They all chuckled.

I, however, LOLed.

I listened to them lament about the good ol’ days as they cursed the way the Internet sucked time from their lives, how they get caught up in Facebook, playing games, shopping and reading anything that they wanted, without restriction. Where there used to be boundaries, there is temptation. Even finding a good sweet potato pie recipe so that Aunt Mabel will be impressed on Thanksgiving is no longer a holy chore. It just requires a nanosecond search. Where’s the glory in that?

I listened with great interest, straining to hear them as they sipped their Frappuccinos, Tazo teas and Vivanno smoothies. Sarah McLachlan was singing about remembering something or another.

Ladies! You're wrong! Technology fastens us to the world and our collective humanity! I wanted to say.  But, I knew that would be rude, or obnoxious, or downright stalker-ish. I was on my laptop after all; Pfft....they'd never take me seriously. Couldn’t I just write with a pen and paper and enjoy a cup of coffee? they’d retort. 

I didn’t want a confrontation.

So, just for kicks, I started to Google the emotions I was feeling and the thoughts I had as I listened to their chatter. In doing so, I was astounded at the gravity of my argument FOR technology.

Herewith. First search: fucking annoyed.  877,000 results. Not bad, I thought there’d be more, I muttered to myself.  Maybe I needed to be more delicate with my language. BINGO.  “I’m annoyed.”  65,300,000 results in .75 seconds!  DAMN. See? Lots of people become annoyed. I'm not alone.

My stomach growled. Second search: I’m hungry. 23,000,000 results. Now that’s more like it.

Yawn. I need more coffee.  I’m tired.  48,800,000 results. WOW. Talk about a universal connection. So many people are tired. Even people in Indonesia and Mongolia get tired, I learned.

Mongolia. Such a poor country. Many stray animals.  Search: My dog died.  7,090,000 pages. So sad. They also have poor sanitation. Search: Eat shit and die. 450,000 results. Again, I thought there would be more, but there was a nice Urban Dictionary refresher for those who use the phrase disparagingly.

I passed gas. (Well, actually I didn’t, but since I was on the topic…) Search: 9,730,000.  Again, jeez, I really thought there’d be more than that. In India, the average person passes flatus two to four times a day and it is not foul-smelling. Still. Out of the billions of people in the world, I just learned that passing gas is right up there with being hungry, and is way more common than being "fucking annoyed." How interesting!

The women began discussing politics.

Search: Obama sucks. (This seemed to be their consensus, not mine.) Hmm. 5,770,000 results, including a Facebook fan page with 26,000 people who like this.  To be fair:  “Bush is an idiot.”  Hot Damn! 6,460,000 results.  Uh-oh. Fan Pages with far less “likes.”  No wonder the Democrats lost the House, I thought.

Well, that’s America, I smirked. Search: Coca-Cola. 33,300,000 results.  Ah, the pause that refreshes. Or was that Pepsi? Nope. Let me check. Yes. It was Coke’s slogan.  I was right.

Usually am.

Time to Laugh Again...

"Sure, it's a jungle out there, but I can still laugh about it."

For six months now, I’ve been in a somber mood, doing more thinking and ruminating than I’ve probably ever done in my life.

Losing a parent will do that to you. You begin to drill into the heart of issues you never contemplated and the world becomes more enlightening and more confusing, but not less funny. 

I’ve had enough of  somberness. Within the healing process of grief, I have gained tremendous insight into the circle of life and have finally become…Simba. (smile)

There’s a voice inside that has been bottled up too long now, and it’s banging on my thick skull to let it come out and play. I want to have fun again, laugh out loud again and, like my beloved mother who always found humor in life,  I want to live joyfully, once more.

This includes writing joyfully (or sarcastically, as the mood strikes me.)

I’m returning to my roots as a thinking humorist because I’m tired of all that heavy lifting. I’m moving in a different direction and, at last,  I feel I’m able to make fun of life again in our perfectly flawed world.

Sure, I’ll still be writing about deep philosophical issues such as “Who’s the better actress…..Betty or Wilma?” and the striking similarities between the actions of a driver who has overwhelming road rage versus a driver who has an overwhelming need to pee.

There will be times to examine the infinite questions of the universe, including why people who drive red cars cannot be trusted to act rationally, and how the lighting and colors in Walmart hypnotize you into buying things you do not need, and compel you to mysteriously lose the receipt so you cannot bring them back.

The wise Zen master once said, “Eat when you are hungry; sleep when you are tired.”  I add, “Laugh when you are ready.”

Stretching the Mind Opens the Heart.

I’ve been thinking a lot about life and the things I’ve witnessed, lived through, experienced and learned from. From the mundane to the monumental, they are essential memories that have become ingredients for the recipe of me – how I see the world, how I live, what I consider important and  what I consider superfluous.  From  a first kiss to a final goodbye, my experience may be different on the surface from yours, but deep down, the feelings and connections are identical.

Our humanity draws us together as a knot does a rope — with each experience being a knot that shortens even the longest distances, the farthest continents. This is how we’re connected, though we may be too busy fighting the traffic, fighting the establishment, making ends meet, or texting at a red light to consciously notice. Because, after all, the emotions felt upon the birth of a healthy child in Kenya and the birth of a healthy child in Connecticut are not different. Joy, relief, amazement, wonder......Awe.

And when the babies arrive, maybe on the same day at precisely the same hour, their lives begin in separate lands, on separate journeys toward experiences that will make them who they become. Because, no matter where we are born, we eventually grow and arrive where we are from where we’ve been. And so, it’s bewildering that we often cannot accept that others are different, even though we realize, at least intellectually, that we “get different” through a route that is completely the same.

How great would it be for people of every race and creed to honor the bond that makes us all part of the world, the universe, the human race. How magnificent would it be if the cultural issues that separate us, the disparity of wealth and knowledge, the variations of faith and belief in the Divine were all to vanish while we drink in the truth that we are together, at this time, sharing this planet as our ancestors did. That we all are born and grow and feel joy and pain and heartbreak as every one who went before us, no matter their tribe, caste or social status. This alone should bind us to each other. This alone should make us kin. 


But it never does.

What’s needed for that realization is a simple thought:  It’s by an accident of birth that you are you and I am me. And that’s precisely what makes us the same.

New Passages. New Perspectives.

A few weeks ago, I visited a Children’s Museum and went through the Alice in Wonderland exhibit. The proportions of everything were deliberately skewed in keeping with the fairy tale and to demonstrate Alice’s point of view.

Funny how that imagery came to me today, as I reflect back on this year full of changes, my new perspective on life, and my place in it. Now, four months since my beloved mother’s passing, I feel more connected to her than I ever imagined possible back then.

I stand on the threshold of significant life changes  – the first “beginnings” and milestones without my mother here on earth. My son will be off to college in New York City next week. I will begin graduate school. My daughter will turn 21 in a few months. In life, Mom would understand these changes and the emotions they bring. In life, she’d encourage and guide (and sometimes prod) me when I entered such transitions. But in spirit, there is none of that.  I simply feel her presence in my heart and I believe I cannot fail. In spirit, my mother’s guidance is as real as if she were sitting in front of me, sipping her coffee from a straw in her cup, sharing biscotti with me in my kitchen.

And I never could have imagined any of this.

Like Alice, something very strange is happening to me, albeit in a good way. I feel an inner wisdom that wasn’t present before. It’s the same wisdom I sensed when Mom was here, guiding me around corners I hadn’t yet approached, letting me learn on my own, yet giving me the Cliffs Notes version whenever it could help.

It’s as if, in her passing from  this life, Mom has passed the torch of  “matriarch” to me, her only daughter, handing me a new role  that I never even considered. What a revelation it was when, longing for her optimism and humor, I began thinking, “Who is most like my mother here on earth?”  The answer came in her voice, through my head.  “You are,” she said.  “You are.”

So as I shopped with my daughter to stock her new apartment with food and other necessities, I felt that sense of pride and maternal love that I know my mother must have felt when she experienced that transition with me. As I talked with my son about his future and his dreams, I felt the same sense of  joy and excitement Mom must have felt when I started my college career.

In a few weeks, the seasons will converge and my first summer without a mother on earth will be over, yielding to an autumn when life’s backdrop will change colors, once again.  With every passing day and month, my perspective will deepen, and my vision will become more clear. I know this not only because I feel it in my heart, but because my mother tells me so.

Living “In-Between…” Thoughts on Life After Any Loss

I am learning to live “in-between.”

I am grieving the loss of my mother, who peacefully passed in my arms on April 23, just three days after my last post. But as grief ebbs and flows, low tide is filled with planning and dreaming of what life holds in store, as I move toward the unknown on this uncharted journey.

Living “in-between” happens for each of us when crisis strikes. When we arrive there, it’s a place full of contradiction.

I know this because I am alternately strong and weak, determined and defeated, bold and hesitant. Everything has changed, and so have I.  So I live in this uncertain space, trusting that the waiting will reveal an unknown truth, a purpose or meaning behind the introspection and newfound patience that I've learned to have with myself.

No one knows how or when they will be called upon to live “in-between,” but I’ve found strength in recognizing that, even within despair, there are moments of happiness that peek through the clouds, just long enough to let you know you’re still alive.

Whether you grieve the loss of a loved one, the end of a relationship or a tragic realization that destroys your current world like an errant asteroid, whatever crisis you face will have a beginning, a middle and an end. Resolution will occur, in time.

“In time,” I say to myself. “In time.”

In time, I’ll be able to have memories without tears, look at keepsakes without a tight chest and quivering lip, or take a familiar drive to a familiar place without envisioning my beloved mother beside me.  In time I will feel whole again.

Like anyone who has experienced loss of any kind, change is upon me. Since I am not one to rush through pain (it actually makes it last longer, I’ve found), I am embracing the grief, honoring it, and giving it its place in my life – for a time.

Living “in-between” means I have given myself permission to live into my own answers, to uncover and discover a new self, even if I cannot imagine it yet.

“God closes a door and opens a window,” holds true for me. It’s also true that like so many who struggle through loss and grief, I’m still in the room, feeling the walls but not finding that window. I suspect it's because God knows there are days that jumping out of it may actually seem like a good idea to me. 

“In time,” I say to myself. “In time.”

Until then, you live “in-between.”

The Message of the Final Mile...

I had promised to blog every week, but real life rudely interrupted my plans when my mother got very sick about eight weeks ago. Since then, my life has been a jumble of medical details and logistics that would challenge even the most organized person. (Meaning: Life was already messy, but now, it’s close to impossible.)

My mother and I have entered a territory known as the final mile. The last hurrah. The end of the road. Hospice.

We have talked about death and dying before, but never with the boldness that this arrangement provides. We have discussed what she’d wear, what I’d say (she fully expects a eulogy from her daughter, the writer), how I’d dress, what I’d do after she passes on, how I’d grieve, promises I’d keep, and how my life might be better/worse without her here, in my home, in the addition we had built especially for her eight summers ago.

For 11 years, mom has been with me, and it’s been a journey full of firsts, but none this monumental. None have had such purposeful introspection.  None have had the calmness or the serenity, nor the frenzied worry which sometimes occurs simultaneously when you least expect it.

I know that my mother is going to die.  I don’t know when, but I know it is coming.  I’ve always known this, of course, even as a young child. Death happens to mothers. Death happens to everyone. I knew this in sixth-grade when a friend whose mother had passed on had released his birthday balloon to the heavens so his mother could participate in his celebration from above.  I knew this as a teen, when my neighbor’s father passed away, and I had my first taste of seeing the loss of a parent through a close friend’s eyes. And I knew as a young woman, as I felt the loss of my father profoundly, and took up the mantle of caring for my mother after making a solemn promise to him as he peacefully passed away.

I know this is the beginning of the end, because I have spent a decade trying to prevent it.  But now, we are poised to let it come. I know this is the first real acceptance of the inevitable because it is what my mother wants and needs. She wishes not to return to the hospital. She wants to stay home and let nature take its course. And we have agreed to be taken along with it because Mom has endured a lot of suffering. And while it’s true she has experienced a lot of happiness on my watch, she now has little energy left for the final leg of the journey, so we are coasting.

Meals are not rushed, but savored.  We say “I love you” more often. We joke around more frequently, and I find myself brushing the hair from her eyes as I tuck her in at night, just as I did with my children when they were sick.

Even though I’ve been caring for my mother for 11 years, this is really the first time I have felt the profound role reversal that is often described when an aging parent relies on you for everything. Her dependence is defining our relationship, but there are still golden moments. There is so little left to offer me, but she provides her wisdom and her reassurance that I am doing everything right for her. There is so little left for her to finish on earth, because, she tells me, “I raised two good kids.”

That she sees me as part of her life’s work is jarring. This is a woman who had forsaken cuddles and trips to the carnival with me when I was a child. She worked tirelessly to build her business and left me on my own too often, for too long, and too many times to count. Growing up as her daughter meant always seeking her unspoken approval but never quite believing it when it came. So, at age 46, I still find myself striving to be that good child, that good daughter —and now, she says that I am.

Perhaps this is the first time she has spoken these words with such conviction. Or perhaps, as the sun sets on her life, it is the first time I am truly hearing her.

Finding Meaning in "Almost"

When you are given a morning, rejoice in it. When you are given an evening, revel in the moonlight. When you are given a second chance, fall to your knees and thank God.

“Almost.”

That’s what the doctor said. “Almost.”

It’s a weird word to hear. It’s a strange word to look at on a printed page.  It’s a peculiar word to contemplate, when ‘almost’ means that something nearly changed the trajectory of  your very existence in a way that could never be undone.

I’ve had a lot of “almosts” in my life.  I almost married a different guy. I almost took a job as a  pharmaceutical rep.  I almost was killed when a person barreled through a red light on a busy city street.

And for every “almost”  I’ve experienced, there has been a revelation, an overwhelming sense that destiny somehow removed me from a cruel fate, or saved me from myself, or led me to select this thing but not that,  which presumably made my world  exactly what it had become in that moment.

“Almost” was what the doctor said.

My mom “almost” died. 

Certainly she would have passed away had I not called the ambulance when I did, had I not gotten her the care she needed before her oxygen levels plummeted even further.

But what the doctor didn’t say was that I “almost” killed her.

A decision to give medication to my mother created a cascade of terrible consequences that forced her weakened body to become nearly lifeless, albeit with a beating heart and faint breath.

I almost created a situation where lifelong guilt and regret would have plagued me, destroyed me. Thankfully, I was spared.

In examining the meaning behind my latest  “almost,” I had an epiphany. The purpose of “almost” is to teach us that there are still lessons that need to be learned and held closely to truly be absorbed.  Whether it’s realizing that texting while driving nearly caused a head-on collision, or losing your temper nearly injured your child, “almost” is a necessary part of living and learning. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re a second place Olympic athlete or a finalist who goes home empty-handed, “almost” always delivers a lesson worth considering — good or bad.

I am grateful for my “almosts” in the same way I am grateful for cold rain after a hot day. It’s refreshing to know that nearly accomplishing a goal, nearly failing a challenge, nearly destroying something dear to you can have unintended yet positive effects on your future.

An “almost” allows us to catch our breath and redefine what we stand for, who we are, and who we want to become.  We can decide to try harder or accept our standing.  We can decide to mentally adjust a bad habit or a faulty presumption so we can do better — or maybe not. We can contemplate the what-ifs and be more grateful or more mindful.

Some people pile their “almosts” in a heap and pay them no attention, while others put them on a tidy shelf  to extract meaning, nuance and lessons from their grand diversity or striking similarity.

Either way, the nature of  “almost” means we are truly blessed by such possibilities. It is up to us to embrace them. 

Celebrating Love....Happy Valentine's Day!

“What’s love got to do with  it?” croons Tina Turner.

“Why do fools fall in love?” asks Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers.

As humans, we have lots of questions about love, but few answers. What draws people together, it seems, is as mysterious as the Bermuda Triangle, and sometimes, just as dangerous.

When I was a kid, my father would say, “There’s a lid for every pot.” At age 10, I knew he wasn’t talking about the Paul Revere cookware inside our oven, but I wasn’t quite keen on the meaning.  Then, one day, Dad made that remark as we walked across the street from two "lovey dovey" hand-holders: a less-than-hygienic couple who drank heavily and lived with their crusty children in a fetid little row home a block from our house.

They were repulsive but blissful.

But Dad wasn’t judging as he uttered those words; he didn’t say them with even a hint of disgust. He seemed simultaneously satisfied and amazed by the fact.

And therein lies love’s mystery.

Sometimes it’s easy to understand certain couples.They are like-minded. They drive Priuses and recycle. The eat sushi or barbeque. They go to church and love Chicago (the band, the musical, the town, whatever). They walk alike. They talk alike. (You’re humming The Patty Duke Show theme song now, aren’t you?) These are the couples that bring a sense of order and comfort to an otherwise chaotic world.

But who hasn’t witnessed an “odd” partnership between two people who seem to not belong together, but nevertheless seem blissful, and even downright ecstatic at their union? How many times have we silently sang "One of these things is not like the other...." when witnessing the duo of Hot Guy/Ordinary Girl,  Old Guy/Hot Mama or — dare I say it — Hot Guy/Ordinary Guy, Hot Mama/Homely Mama? How many times have we looked at such couples and wondered, to quote the internet acronym, “WTF?”

It turns out that love is blind, after all. Anyone who has ever loved differently than what is considered “usual and customary” understands that love is a feeling that doesn’t declare itself off-limits when an unspoken connection or chemistry exists.

No one ever said that the lids and the pots have to match; they just have to fit.

But, even though we may rationally grasp this, or even pay lip service to it, it doesn’t stop some folks from stereotyping, categorizing, condemning, or judging those who are not like them in matters of the heart:

“She must want him for his money.” (or something else).

“He must be good in bed.” (because he is as ugly as sin.)

“That’s disgusting and unnatural.” (because I don’t understand it).

"He's old enough to be her father." (what's wrong with her?)

Fortunately, love is more powerful than all the judgment that seeks to undo it. Many times, the couples who seem least likely to endure have more years of joy together and get the last laugh. 

So cheers to you, overweight guy with the skinny girl. Asian woman with the Irishman. Black woman with the white man. Filipino with the Italian. Senior citizen with the baby boomer. 

You found love and your heart is happy. You are proof that the Beatles said it best — “All you need is love.”

May we all be so lucky.

Snow Daze.....

Mother Nature hit the pause button today. As an 18-inch blanket of snow lay outside my front door,  I am reminded of the joys of staying put.

           

Nowhere to go can be a great place, when you rest in nature’s palm. Make some hearty soup, throw a log on the fire, and watch the snow tumble down from your cozy rocking chair.  

Be still.

Snow delivers a permission slip to slow down, to breathe deeply and appreciate life,  inviting us to look within. When we stare into a roaring fireplace and lose ourselves, or merely note the peaceful silence of a glistening night, we glimpse into a world of perfection. We can see that snow is magic, and we become a part of it.

As children, we understand  and embrace this. Snow days are seen as a gift from heaven, with flakes falling down on tongues and eyelashes, and opportunities to build snowmen and create celestial figures from our own body. Like a new toy to be shaped and molded into whatever our imaginations could allow,  childhood snow reminded us of possibilities. And as the wintry mix snuck down the hoods of our jackets and tops of our mittens, we could not only feel the cold, but could absorb the wonder of special memories being made with family and friends.

But, for most adults, snow days mean tending to sidewalks and front steps. There’s milk, bread, and eggs. Get gas for the car; buy food for the cat or dog. Don’t forget the aspirin after a day’s worth of shoveling. If we’re not careful, the magic is contaminated by obligation and responsibility. If we’re not mindful, awe and inspiration are replaced by grouchiness, impatience, and complaints about a messy foyer floor.

The snow is still falling as I type this. Outside, a flock of  Canadian geese is flying above the treetops, just beyond my neighborhood. They are squawking loudly, as they always do when they pass by. But today, thanks to a magical snowfall, it feels oddly serene to hear them.

Why Old Friends are the Best Friends.

It was 1975. On the playground during recess, I played the games of my childhood with other kids who, like me, wore the Catholic school uniform that signified our unity and connection. Black or white, Irish or Italian, Asian or German —we were bonded together in spirit, and for life.

It wasn’t just that we had the same teachers, shared the same prayers, the same coaches and the same hot lunches. It wasn’t just that we were classmates, teammates, bus mates and, at the time, soul mates. We were brothers and sisters, in a sense, with values shaped by nuns who had rulers and rules, and giant hand bells they shook to get our attention.  It was that, molded by all these factors and shared experiences, we understood each other and everything around us without saying a word.

Thirty-five years later,  it’s still true.

An outing with an old friend from the old neighborhood brought back the same comfortable feelings that I had as a kid during afternoon recess.

Like chocolate milk and soft Philly pretzels after morning prayers, we share a bond that can only exist with someone who has known you since childhood, when it was unthinkable to pretend to be something other than what you were. It’s a bond unfazed by a fancy car or a fancy job. It does not judge a messy house or a messy life.  It's just there, accepting, knowing, caring – because someone who knows you from “way back when” still does, in the truest sense, even after 35 years.

And it’s so comfortable.

Old friends bring us back to our roots, helping us see and feel the world as we did when life was simpler, and so were we. They take us down memory lane and catch us up in a blink of an eye, as images flood our brains, and stir our senses. 

When it occurs, we understand how we got this far.

I am 11 years old again and it’s springtime. Sister Mary Agnes is ringing her bell. Recess is over and we rush to get in line.

“Are you ready to get back to work?” the nun asks.

“Yes, Sister,” we reply in unison.

Our shoes click on the playground surface as we begin to walk inside.  We take our seats in wooden desks, and say another prayer.

Our future is shaped in this classroom, she tells us. 

And, yes, so is our past.

Giving Thanks.....And Giving.

Sometimes you don't have to look far to find opportunities to give, and to give thanks. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to remind us of this.

With Haiti earthquake relief efforts underway, money and prayers are flowing toward the devastated homeland of so many wonderful people.  But, too often, it is just not enough.  Yesterday, on CNN I saw a Haitian woman speak of the loss of her 5-year-old and 2-year-old. "There was no burial," she said.  "I just threw them away."

I just threw them away. 

I began to cry when I heard her speak. I could not understand her language, but I could understand her pain. I cannot imagine such suffering.

Or, maybe I can, as I get a glimpse of it, closer to home.

Last night,  I walked up Walnut Street and saw a homeless man sitting outside a theatre. His sign said, "I am Mike and this is my dog Sparks. We are homeless. Please help us."  He sat in the dirt next to the parking lot, cradling his sad-looking dog in a blanket on his lap. A tattered bag of dog food sat beside him. Many passersby placed money in Mike's grimy paper cup before they went to see their show.

I wondered about Mike. How did he come to this point in his life, begging outside a theatre on a January Friday? Where was his family? Was Sparks his only friend? The questions were unending. The answers never came. I didn't ask.

Further along the street, a woman pushed a cart full of all her worldly possessions. She settled on a grate near a parking garage, desperate for the heat that rose up around her as if embracing her weary body. No one said a word to her as they walked by. No one helped or even offered to help. It was as if she were invisible.

My brother works for the Department of Youth and Family Services. He sees neglect, poverty, ignorance and evil on a daily basis. Much of it is forgotten once the paperwork is processed. The brain cannot take the pain of remembering the details every day. Children are removed from homes. Parents are sent to prison, to rehab, to anger management. Children die. It's just part of a broken system.

And then there are the lucky ones.  Those of us who have not lost children, who are not begging, who have a home and a warm, clean bed in which to rest and who have not experienced the pain of a broken system that is as powerless as the children it seeks to protect.

It shouldn't take an earthquake to help people in need. Little earthquakes are happening every day, all around us. If we pay attention, we can feel the aftershocks. If we look beyond ourselves, we can see the need.

Today, I make a pledge to give thanks, but more importantly, to give more of myself.

My Cat, the Shrink.

Tonight, I talked with my cat for 45 minutes. And I believe he talked back.

No, I wasn't drinking (although I considered it.) I wasn't depressed (although I should have been). I was merely frustrated, looking to figure out a vexing problem concerning my future and my life. Reo, or "Dr. Reo" as he should be called, patiently listened, his honey golden eyes gazing lovingly into mine. He purred as I lamented. As I explained my options and waited for his reply, "Meow," he said. He rolled over, exposed his tummy to me and gently put his paw on my shoe. It was enough.

I grabbed his toy feather ("Da Bird –the best darn cat toy in the universe"), stroked his furry chin, and we played for another quarter hour. In my 60 minutes with Reo, I noticed something amazing. I had gone from head-in-the-oven panic to tomorrow-it-will-be-better tranquility. All because he listened. Or maybe just because I talked.

The Humane Society of the United States estimates that 4 to 6 million cats and dogs are euthanized each year instead of being adopted. Reo was one of the lucky ones. And so was I, to have found him.

The companionship, the unconditional love, and the energizing spirit of an animal that depends on you, loves you and is happy to see you every day should be enough to empty the cages of every shelter in America. It should be enough to make every sad, lonely person get up out of bed and have a connection with life. It should be enough to cure blues, to lift hopes, to put the big things into perspective.

Because when it comes down to what really matters in life, Reo knows, as all animals do, that love is the answer. And a good talk with a good friend can make a world of difference.